My Father, My King
by Thalia Weaver
Summary: Eomer after the War of the Ring, from the viewpoint of his sons.
1. My Father, My King

My Father, My King by Thalia Weaver  
  
My father sits by the fire, pensive and thoughtful. He picks up the sword he had begun to polish and turns it over and over in his hands. The blade is called Guthwine, and it fits his hand perfectly still, its fighting edge undulled even by many years of peace. My father's hands caress the worn leather of the hilt, and I watch in fascination as he picks up the polishing cloth again. I know the look in his eyes- it tells me that he is remembering the days he rode as Eomer, Third Marshal of the Mark, enemy of Rohan's enemies, the greatest soldier the Riddermark had seen since Eorl the Young.  
  
The sword glints in the firelight, and somehow in its thin silver blade is captured the vision of my father as I have seen him on the practice courts- Eomer, not King of Rohan as he is now, but Eomer warrior of the Mark, sharp and deadly, a blaze of silver sword and golden hair flying in the wind. I have not seen him go to the practice courts since my mother took ill.  
  
My mother's name was Lothiriel of Dol Amroth, and my father loved her. She sickened after my youngest brother Theoden's birth, and I had watched her waste away. Since her death, my father walks the halls of Meduseld like a wraith, the light gone from his eyes.  
  
My little brother Theoden wanders unsteadily into my father, the King of Rohan's lap, and I watch my father as he looks at his surroundings uncomprehendingly. More and more he has withdrawn into himself of late, speaking always of the past.  
  
"Father?" Theoden inquires, looking up into Eomer's face. My father smiles at him, for Theoden is charming to a fault. Theoden picks up Guthwine, the sight oddly incongruous: the glittering blade, danger captured in swift-shining metal, looks out of place in his chubby toddler's hands. My father takes it from him, and again, as I have often done, I marvel at the beauty of the sword. My father's hands are the hands of a warrior, with calloused palms and scarred fingers.  
  
"Father, tell me the story of your sword!" Theoden's voice is pleading.  
  
"Again? It seems as though you will never tire of that tale, my son." My father shifts in his chair, finding a comfortable position, settling into the tale of the warrior maid Guthwine and her noble deeds.  
  
~~  
  
The fire has burnt down, and Theoden is asleep in my father's arms. His chest rises and falls, and his eyelids flutter; he stirs, restless, and I wonder what his dreams are. My father's hands drop again to his sword.  
  
I feel tears pricking at the back of my eyes, though I know not why they come. Forcing a smile, though I fear it comes out bitter, I picked up Theoden softly, trying not to disturb his heavy sleep. He is heavy for such a small child, and I cannot supress a small grunt as I heft his weight.  
  
At the door, I turn for one last glance at my father. The light of the embers glints off the back of his head, and for the first time I see the strands of grey amidst his blond hair. I suppose I did not look hard enough before. Now I realize it; he is old, my father. My King.  
  
-The End- 


	2. Nothing I Can Do

My Father, My King

A/N: Wow, I did not expect to continue this! There are prolly gonna be two more chapters, or so.

Disclaimer: As usual, I own nothing but my belly, baby Chad.

Chapter Two: Nothing I Can Do

Theoden is drawing something as I sit by the fire, letting the heat pour over me as I stretch my aching muscles. He peers at the paper with the utmost concentration, hardly daring to breathe for fear that exhaling will disturb a pen-stroke. I shut my eyes, trying to let my thoughts drift, but curiosity overcomes me.  
  
"Theoden?" I call softly. My seven-year-old brother looks up, an expression of exasperation on his chubby face. He does not deign to reply, only waits for me to speak, his impatience clear in his large grey-brown eyes.   
  
"What do you draw?" I inquire, forcing myself to stand. I rue my own inquisitiveness; in truth, after a long day of riding, I would rather do nothing but sit by the fire for days on end.   
  
He pushes the paper towards me, sighing exaggeratedly. It is a roughly done, half-finished sketch of a woman, her hair flying in a fierce breeze, her dress long and floating.   
  
"Who is she?" I ask softly, meeting his eyes. He blushes.   
  
"I thought to draw our mother," he says, so softly I can barely hear him. "Father always said she was so beautiful, and-" he sighs. "It is a terrible picture."  
  
"No, no," I hastily reply. "It is wonderful." I can feel a small lump in the back of my throat. "Do you not remember her?"  
  
He shrugs. "Not really. I dreamt of her once." His eyes take on a far-off, dreamy look. "She told me that she loved me, and missed me." He looks straight into my eyes, and I see that there are tears in his. "I miss her, Elfwine."  
  
I sweep him up in a hug, blinking back a few stubborn tears. He makes a half-hearted noise of protest, but returns my embrace.   
  
"Elfwine," he whispers, and I hold him at arm's length for a moment. He looks very young and vulnerable, and I am reminded of a night I carried him into bed, years ago. "Why doesn't father look at me anymore?"  
  
"Oh, Theoden." How am I to answer his query? I have the same question. I can see it has been troubling him- I know him well enough to know that he blames himself, at least to some extent. I lean over close, drawing him into my arms again. "Never, ever think it is your fault."  
  
"But how can it not be?" His voice is plaintive, and it cracks on the last word- he struggles to master himself.   
  
"When our mother died… part of father died as well," I try to explain, knowing that whatever I say will never fill the gap in his heart- or, indeed, in my own. "He has not been himself for years now."  
  
"A dwimmerlaik?" He asks fearfully, his voice a frightened whisper.   
  
I sigh. "Almost, Theoden."  
  
"He looks through me so…it is as though he does not see me at all!" My brother looks at me pleadingly. "Is there nothing I can do?"   
  
*Nothing I can do…*  
  
"I know of nothing, brother." The words break my heart. There *is* nothing to do. Father is hardly a man, of late. I sorrow for my brother- he is almost an orphan, knowing neither mother nor father. My father does not leave his room except to take audiences with the people every morning- he still does his duties as King of the Mark well enough- but long has he neglected his youngest son. I am torn between anger at him and sorrow for him; anger that he cannot leave the past behind, cannot see Theoden for what he is- and sorrow for his loss, for I know that he left the better part of his heart at my mother's graveside.   
  
Theoden looks down, struggling not to break down, not to cry. I ache for him; he is my only brother, and I know that I would do anything to make him happy again. But I cannot take my father's place- it was cruel of fate to give Theoden a father and then take him away.   
  
Suddenly, with a venom swift and sudden as a striking snake, Theoden snatches up the half-finished picture of my mother and throws it into the fire. I grab him, and he begins to sob, collapsing against my shoulder. I let him cry for a few minutes, as he bangs his fists against my back in helpless frustration. Finally, spent, he sniffles and stands, wiping his eyes. He looks ashamed of his weakness, and refuses to meet my eyes. I gently lift his chin until our eyes lock in a moment of wordless sympathy, and in that moment more passes between us than could ever be said in a thousand years.  
  
"It's not fair, Elfwine," Theoden says, but it is no more than a calm statement of fact. I feel as though I am being ripped apart from inside. I nod.  
  
"No, it isn't."  
  
He takes a deep breath, squaring his shoulders, and sighs. His eyes look grey as the stormy sky, as my mother's were.   
  
*Nothing I can do…*  
  



	3. And After?

Chapter Three: And After?  
  
I lift my father's cold hand to my lips. There is no warmth in it; he has no pulse. He is dead.  
  
This is his end: old and decrepit, e died during the night, with none to witness his last breath. Perhaps, at last, in death he will find the peace he wished for. All that he loved was dead and gone long before he took leave from life; he could not spare any of his love for me, or for my brother.  
  
Am I to grieve now? Can I even grieve for him? Why was I the one to find him at last, now that he is dead? I know that my brother will cry and cry, though to me and to the world he will not bare his grief. Ever I was the weaker brother- younger, and weaker; Elfwine assumed responsibility for me, along with the rest of the country- he the crown prince, the ruler of Rohan, now that my father is gone. He will assume kingship stoically, and rule well; the people will love him, for he is pure and good.  
  
And I? I will fade into anonymity, as always- if there had been anyone to care, I would have spent my life in his shadow.  
  
Of course, there was no one. I still feel my father's absence, stabbing me like a wound no one can see, spreading its poison through my heart and mind. All my life he was beside me, and yet I was not sufficient to draw him out of the past. Elfwine suffered as well, but he bore, and will bear, his burden in silence and good will, whilst I become bitter as wormwood and ash. Well, I am too bitter to cry; no death can move me now, as I sit beside the still body of my father, like unto a figure carved of cold marble, devoid of tears.  
  
The people will mourn for him- Eadig, the blessed, King of Rohan, Marshal of the Mark. I finished mourning my father's loss long before his wandering wits at last reached the hall of kings. No, my father died the day he watched the smoke of my mother's ashes float up and disappear into the blue wilderness of sky.  
  
Now he is gone. I cannot say that I will mourn for him. The only pain I feel now is the dull ache of cankered wounds that only he could heal, that will now never see reparation.  
  
"Theoden?" It is my brother, Elfwine, standing in the doorway; he is disshevelled from sleep, looking exhausted. "Are you all right? Why are you- "  
  
His gaze moves from me to the corpse of my father. He rushes to my father's bedisde, pressing his ear to my father's unmoving chest.  
  
"No heartbeat," he says numbly, and slowly straightens. "No heartbeat."  
  
He falls to his knees, taking one of my father's hands in his own.  
  
"Oh, father," he whispers, his voice raw with pain. I sit beside him, silent. How can I comfort him? What can I say?  
  
"Father, you cannot leave me now," my brother whispers. "Not now."  
  
Tears spill down his face as he rocks back and forth gently. He does not sob- for he is stoic now, as ever. I know better than any how heavy the burden of being the future king has pressed upon his shoulders- he fears seeming weak, too weak to rule. But he is strong, my brother. He will leave his sorrow behind and emerge the braver for it.  
  
I am weak; I wallow in my own bitterness, letting it seep through my soul. I am gall and acid now, and joyless; my brother is oak, strong and noble.  
  
My brother gets to his feet, wiping away the tears that flow still.  
  
"He will need to be cremated," Elfwine says, his voice cracking, despite his struggles to keep it steady. "I will- I will see what I can do. He is- it was his time to die."  
  
"Elfwine." My voice is calm. "I will arrange the pyre. Take a few hours to yourself."  
  
"Theoden?" He is worried for me, worried that I do not cry- he is grieving, innocent. Something moves inside me. My brother loved me when no one cared. This I will do for him; for once in my life, I will protect my brother. For once, I can help him.  
  
"Go, Elfwine." I enfold him in an embrace, feeling his tears wet my shoulder and cheek. "I will be here." 


	4. Night

My Father, My King  
  
Chapter Four: Night  
  
Tonight I sit by the fire, as my father once did. The comparison is apt: both of us wasting our last day before burning embers, embittered with longing and desire to change the past. I, who hated my father for his abandonment…that I should now indulge in the same weakness? A cruel irony. But my father was loved for his great deeds, helm-clad on the field of battle and crown-clad in the rebuilding of the country after the war…my head is bare, of achievement and of love. But I do not mind so much, anymore.  
  
I loved my father once, before the years took their toll on me, before he died silently in the night with no one to attend him. Yes, loved: and my brother. I loved him also. It is a strange thought, now.   
  
So many years. So many bitter years…I have no more bitterness now. I know my father's mind, now…drifting back and forth in a vacant sadness, longing for the days when everything was clear and nothing was beyond my reach. Oh, I remember those days! When still I had the bloom of youth. I have only sadness now, that I did not truly know my father, that I wasted so much time in resentful hatred. Oh, hatred…I cannot hate him now. I wonder if I ever did.   
  
I loved my brother. His reign was everything he was: noble, brave, gentle, strong. Rohan regained much of her former glory in his time. He is gone now: passed away surrounded by his children and his loving queen, peaceful, deserved and timely.   
And I remain, remnant of a time now past. But not for long. Even now I drift, sitting by the fire tonight. Even now I slip away, as the flames burn down to embers. Even now I wander the paths of dreams, asleep without dreams or closed eyes. There are many memories to recall, in this lonely peace…  
  
  
_"Theoden," my brother calls. I turn from my chair beside the fire. My brother is an old man, hair white, face covered in the wrinkles that are the valleys of time.  
  
"Elfwine?" He sits beside me in the other chair, basking in the fire's glow. We are two old men in the firelight.  
  
"This peace. Do you know what I speak of?"  
  
I look at him blankly, unsure what he is talking about. My Elfwine, still the same man he was. He will never fade.  
  
"I do not have much time on this earth now, my brother." There is no doubt in his voice. He is tranquil, his face containing some transcendent peace.   
_  
_"Think you this, on your soul?" I do not want him to die, my   
Elfwine, my rock- my brother.   
  
"Yea, as sure as I have a thought or a soul." He smiles at me. "Have peace, brother. It is time."   
  
"Nay, Elfwine, do not die and leave me without a soul." Without a brother.   
  
"Theoden…" His face is shadowed for a moment. He takes my hand. "You must let me go."   
  
"I cannot, Elfwine!" I know he speaks truth. Tears course down my face. I cannot lose him. I cannot lose him. He is the only thing I have…the only one who could ever take the place of a father long lost and unmourned.   
  
"Do not hate him, Theoden." We both know of whom he speaks. "He was even as you are. The two of you are more alike than you can ever know."   
_  
_"Elfwine…" he is wise, my brother. I cannot lose him. "Elfwine, promise me you will never leave me."  
  
He takes my hand and places it on my own heart. "I will never leave you, Theoden, so long as you remember me."   
  
I remember him now, the only thing I ever loved…   
  
_Now I know Elfwine's peace. Soon I will join him again. The fire flickers, casting shadows on the room. I let my eyes drift closed, wandering far beyond the realms of time.  
  
Now there is only stillness.  
  
_I am here, my brother… _  



End file.
